Strange Bondfellows
by Zathara001
Summary: Natasha has stayed away from her soulmate for months. Now she's finally ready to confront him.
1. Chapter 1

NOTE:

This is a sequel to "In Extremis Veritas," but while references are made to events in that story, you don't have to have read that to understand this.

As should be obvious, I don't own anything to do with the Avengers, Captain America, etc. All rights belong to Disney/Marvel, and are hereby given to same.

 _So that's the Black Widow._

Brock Rumlow studied the petite redhead who'd come aboard with Captain Rogers as he nodded a greeting to them. Funny, he would've thought she'd be taller. Then again, his grandma always said that dynamite comes in small packages, and Natasha Romanoff was nothing if not dangerous.

During preflight, Romanoff kept to herself, apparently oblivious to the appreciative looks his team was giving her. He couldn't blame them for looking, though he kept a careful eye on them to make sure nobody crossed from appreciative to leering. Rogers wouldn't like that, and with Project Insight so close to launching, Brock couldn't risk anything that roused Rogers' suspicion about any of his team.

Brock briefed them on the situation aboard the _Lemurian Star_ and Rogers laid out a simple plan of attack. Then they were checking their gear and Brock couldn't help but stare at Romanoff. She moved with a grace he'd never encountered before, and if he didn't know her rep, he'd think she was a dancer.

Idly, he wondered if Rogers was tapping that, but he discarded the thought almost immediately when he heard Romanoff ask if Rogers was doing anything fun Saturday night in a tone a friend would use. Wait – was she trying to set Rogers up on a date?

Brock chuckled to himself. The day Captain America needed help getting laid would be a cold day in hell, indeed.

But if Romanoff wasn't sleeping with Rogers, Brock thought, then maybe he had a chance. It would be a hell of a ride, if nothing else.

Then Rogers was jumping out of the plane – without a parachute, the show-off – and making a play for Romanoff would have to wait. He had missions to complete.

#

When the Triskelion fell, Natasha's first concern was for Captain America. He'd fallen from one of the helicarriers, and she worked with the search teams to find him - and then, once he'd been brought in from the shores of the Potomac, she divided her time between his bedside and various committee hearings. It was while she was visiting Steve one day that she'd found her soulmate.

Sam relieved her from vigil at Steve's bedside, and Natasha found herself reluctant to leave the hospital. Oh, she knew Steve would be all right, eventually - he was Captain America, after all, and that super-serum meant he'd recover. No, she was reluctant to leave because the hospital was the one place the reporters couldn't get at her, the one place she could be alone with her thoughts.

So she wandered the hospital. Odd that a place full of sick, injured, and maybe dying people should be her refuge, but Natasha had long ago accepted "odd" as a normal part of the life she'd chosen.

However much comfort this temporary refuge provided, it couldn't overcome instinct, however, and instinct had her scanning every passing nurse, doctor, patient, or visitor to assess whatever threat they might present. And it wasn't just the people in the corridors that she noticed. It was the staff at the nurses' stations, and the visitors and patients in the rooms.

And then she stopped, dead in the middle of the hallway. Something set her on alert, but what?

Cautiously, she turned back, dodging a tall black man pushing a cart loaded with meal trays, and retraced her steps.

Two rooms back, she paused in the doorway to look inside. It was a semi-private room, but surprisingly the bed nearest the door was occupied. The patient was male, half his head and much of his body swathed in bandages, but even so Natasha could tell that he was fit, with muscles born of fighting and scrapping, not built on vanity at the gym – the kind of man she'd find attractive under normal circumstances.

But these weren't normal circumstances, so she stepped into the room, quickly making certain it was empty except for the man on the bed. It was, and she turned back to study him. Olive complexion, dark hair, sharp cheekbones … he looked familiar.

A glance at the patient's name on the monitor told her why.

Brock Rumlow, leader of SHIELD's STRIKE team, Hydra agent, betrayer of Captain America.

It was that last that bothered Natasha the most. Steve Rogers was a genuinely good person, even when he had to do things he didn't like to do, and there were so few genuinely good people left in the world that consciously betraying one of them was unthinkable.

Or, Natasha's conscience added with uncharacteristic self-knowledge, it was unthinkable to the person she'd become, and she'd only become that person because of Steve Rogers himself. She owed him a debt – not that she'd ever admit that aloud, nor that he'd agree even if she did – and she'd assumed she'd never be able to repay it.

Now, though, fate had given her the chance.

She approached the bed where Rumlow lay. The monitor beeped in quiet time with his pulse, punctuated by the hum of the sphygmomanometer as it inflated to read Rumlow's blood pressure.

Natasha moved quietly to the edge of the bed, a dozen different ways to kill Rumlow without leaving a breath of evidence crossed her mind. She could do it and be gone before the monitor even flatlined. The world would be short one more psychopathic Hydra lackey, and no one would be the wiser as to why.

Except her.

Why should that thought bother her? She'd killed other people for far less personal reasons. Why should she hesitate now?

The answer came in a flash, and it made her sit heavily on the edge of Rumlow's bed. She hesitated because Steve wouldn't approve.

When had that started to matter to her? She was a Black Widow, trained since childhood to carry out missions without question, without regard to what society, or any given member of society, might think. Why should one man's opinion sway her, even if that man was Steve (Captain America) Rogers?

A groan from Rumlow startled her, and for an instant she was torn between dashing for the door and killing him.

Then the one eye not covered by a bandage opened, and he focused on her with surprising speed given the amount of drugs that had to be coursing through his system.

Probably a result of all that Hydra training, Natasha thought. Her own training had been similar.

She could still kill him before he made a sound.

Then he grinned. His voice was dry and raspy when he said, "I always thought we'd be more active when we shared a bed."

Natasha's blood ran as cold as a Siberian winter. That couldn't be right – he couldn't have said the words on her soulmark. They'd been on a mission together. Surely they'd spoken before now?

Her thoughts raced back over that fateful mission on the _Lemurian Star_. Rumlow had briefed her, Steve, and the STRIKE team on the mission, but he'd never spoken directly to her, nor she to him.

They'd never spoken directly to each other. Which meant it was virtually certain that he was her soulmate.

The Black Widow in her, the person she'd been trained to be, wanted to kill him like her totem namesake would. She'd been indoctrinated, in fact, to do precisely that, and those old instincts rose within her like a cobra preparing to strike.

But she was _not_ that person anymore, or not _just_ that person. She was Natasha Romanoff, and she would not give in.

She would, however, wipe that smirk off his too-handsome face.

One nerve strike later, Rumlow lay unconscious once more. Natasha rose and left the room, wondering just what Fate had against her.


	2. Chapter 2

The problem of her soulmate kept Natasha occupied until the unexpected reappearance of another man from her past, one who'd tried to kill her several times – the Winter Soldier, also known as James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, who'd been Steve Rogers' best friend until both of their apparent deaths in World War Two.

He apologized for trying to kill her, and she told him she understood it wasn't his choice, and then she helped him get over a fear his Hydra handlers – programmers, really – had implanted in him, a fear of beautiful women.

Then he met his soulmate, Pepper Potts, and Natasha helped him rescue Pepper from the Ten Rings organization. It was during that rescue that the topic of her soulmate had come up in conversation.

Bucky asked if she'd met her soulmate, and when she said yes, he offered to give her privacy to call him. She declined sharply and he let the subject drop – until they were back home.

Then his words were simple and to the point. "Maybe you should think about why you're staying away."

The simple suggestion brought Brock Rumlow, and the problem of what, if anything, she was going to do about him, back to the forefront of her thoughts.

At first, the answer to why she was staying away appeared obvious – Brock Rumlow was an example of the kind of evil Natasha thought she left behind when she joined SHIELD, the kind she'd definitely left behind when she dumped all of SHIELD's and Hydra's data onto an innocent, unsuspecting public, the kind that Steve Rogers stood against.

But, the more Natasha thought about Bucky's question – he'd never pressure her for an answer, she knew, but she wanted to have one ready regardless – the more that seemed too simplistic a reason.

Hadn't she, herself, once been one of the evil ones? And hadn't Clint Barton refused a direct order to kill her, instead offering a different path? Hadn't Steve Rogers inspired her to become a better person? Both of those men had impacted her life in so many ways, one becoming her best friend and the other becoming the best partner she'd worked with.

Both of them had taken a chance on her. Should she – _could she_ \- do any less for someone else, especially when that someone else was very probably her soulmate?

Viewed in that light, there was only one choice she could make.

#

After three months of intensive therapy, Brock found himself healthy once more, but at loose ends.

With the fall of SHIELD and, subsequently, Hydra, he was effectively unemployed. That he was still free, and not facing charges for some of the things he'd done, was likely the result of the sheer volume of data that flooded the world, but it helped that he couldn't be held directly responsible for any acts that might constitute treason.

Brock congratulated himself for dancing that line so carefully all those years. He was still free, but what the hell was he supposed to do now?

That question occupied his thoughts during his morning workout. With SHIELD facilities closed, Brock chose to use the gym in his apartment complex. Under most circumstances, he'd consider it horribly inadequate, but he wasn't back to full strength yet, so it suited his needs.

Half an hour on the treadmill at an easy pace and a set of Tabata interval squats later, Brock was ready to collapse - in a good way. He paced the gym until his pulse returned to normal, then headed back to his apartment. He needed a sports drink, a shower, and breakfast, preferably in that order.

He was standing at the kitchen sink, chugging the neon orange drink that somehow managed not to taste like orange juice, when he became aware of another presence in his apartment.

Silently, he eased the bottle onto the counter and pulled the (perfectly balanced; he'd checked before he bought it) butcher knife from the block before easing sideways toward the living room.

Brock spotted her immediately, standing by his bookshelf apparently perusing the titles.

What the hell was the Black Widow doing in his apartment? And should he be relieved that she wasn't dressed for combat?

"Make yourself at home," he said dryly, though he didn't drop his guard.

She turned slowly, giving him a smile that was little more than one upturned corner of her mouth.

"Just because I'm in your apartment doesn't mean I'll end up in your bed again."

"So that was real," Brock murmured. "I thought it was the drugs."

Then what she said registered, and he stared at her. She couldn't have said his soulmark words. Could she?

"As real as that," she agreed.

"Can I assume you're not here to kill me?"

"If I were here to kill you, you'd already be dead."

From anyone else, it would've been a boast. From her, it was just a statement of fact.

Brock flipped the butcher knife into view, saw the acknowledgment in her eyes, and then returned it to its place in the knife block.

"Why are you here, if not to kill me?"

"Not to take you in." She approached with that sinuous grace he'd noticed aboard the transport to the _Lemurian Star_.

"That's a start." Why couldn't he catch his breath? Even in his weakened state, he should have recovered by now.

Natasha stopped within inches of touching him, her head tilted back so she could look up into his eyes. "Someone asked me why I was staying away from you. I didn't have an answer."

"So here you are." His fingertips itched to touch her, to trace her cheekbone or the line of her jaw. His survival instinct overrode that impulse. Better to let her make the first move. "What now?"

"Now I let you buy me dinner, or whatever people do for dates these days, and we see what this can be."

Brock swallowed. "I'll pick you up at four. The Tower?"

"The Tower." She let her gaze linger on his for a long moment before it dropped to his mouth. Her lips twitched into a hint of a smile. "See you then."

Brock decided his shower would be a cold one.

#

Natasha had never lacked confidence in how she looked. She'd been trained to blend in anywhere, any time. But tonight she was going on a date with her soulmate. What was she supposed to wear?

Her closet, filled with clothes suitable for any occasion, provided no assistance. But she knew someone who could.

One phone call later, Pepper Potts was listening to her pour out the whole story. Halfway through, she poured two glasses of wine and offered one to Natasha.

"So now I'm going on a date with a soulmate who was trying to kill me not that long ago, and I have no idea what to wear." Natasha sighed loudly over her wineglass. "I feel like such a - a - _girl_."

"You are a girl," Pepper pointed out. The sympathy in her tone was why Natasha had called her. Pepper knew all about difficult soulmates, thanks to Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier.

"I don't feel like one very often," Natasha murmured.

"Then indulge it tonight," Pepper said. "Where are you going?"

"He didn't say. He just said he'd pick me up at four."

"A little early for dinner," Pepper noted. "So maybe something casual. Unless you're planning on sleeping with him tonight?"

"No!" Natasha glared at her. "I don't even know him."

"But he is your soulmate. The bond is hard to resist."

"I've done harder things."

"I know." Pepper rose and crossed to Natasha's closet, flipping through the hangers. "At least I have something to work with here. Dr. Foster asked for advice and I had to send her shopping."

"That bad?" Natasha asked. She'd only met Thor's girlfriend once, briefly, and she'd slotted the woman into the "easily-distracted scientist" category.

"Nothing but jeans and plaid flannel shirts," Pepper said. "Except for one dress that I think was supposed to go from business lunch to awards dinner. Ten years ago."

Natasha chuckled and took a sip of her wine, setting the glass aside when Pepper turned from the closet, holding up a swath of sea green silk.

"How about this?" Pepper asked.

Natasha studied the dress. She'd gotten it earlier that year for a birthday dinner at Clint's house. The cap-sleeved dress hugged her torso then fell into a fuller, tea-length skirt. Dressy, but not formal, especially with subtle accessories.

"Perfect," Natasha said. "I should've thought of it myself."

"You're a little close to the situation this time," Pepper reminded her. "He's not a mark, or a target, or whatever you call people you go after on missions. No, I don't really want to know."

Natasha chuckled. "Thank you, Pepper."

"It's the least I can do. But I want details, later."


	3. Chapter 3

A few minutes before four, Brock parked his Challenger SRT in a visitor space outside Avengers Tower and stepped into the lobby.

No security desk, he noted, just a second entry door with a video communication system. Brock crossed to it, spoke into the receiver. "Brock Rumlow to see Natasha Romanoff."

There was the briefest of pauses, then the second door slid open. Brock stepped inside, and a cultured British voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere said, "Please proceed to the elevator, Lieutenant Commander Rumlow."

Brock nodded an acknowledgment to the unseen butler and strode to the bank of elevators across the lobby. One opened as he approached, and he stepped inside. The door slid closed and if he had wondered which button to push, he found he shouldn't have bothered. There were no buttons in this elevator. It started smoothly upward and Brock had no choice but to go along for the ride, wherever it was taking him.

Romanoff's apartment? Brock discarded the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. No, it was more likely the elevator was taking him to a private lobby of some kind. It was more than he'd expected, and he gave thanks to the God he'd officially stopped believing in years ago for this glimpse, however small, into Natasha Romanoff's private life.

The elevator slid to a gentle stop and the doors opened to what might have been any luxury apartment in the city. Well-honed habits had Brock scanning the room for possible threats, from the kitchenette in a far corner to the seating area directly in front of him.

Two people sat there, a man with his back to Brock - the man hadn't even looked up when the elevator arrived, and so dropped a few points in Brock's threat evaluation - and a woman.

Brock caught a flash of red hair, thought the woman might be Natasha, but then realized that it was more strawberry blonde than actual red. Then the woman was rising to her feet, approaching him with a gracious smile, and Brock saw how wrong he'd been.

"Lieutenant Commander Rumlow," the woman said. "Welcome. I'm Pepper Potts."

"Brock, please, Ms. Potts." Brock took the hand she offered, wondered at her easy manner. Surely she knew who he was, what he'd done - so was she that confident, or that stupid? This being Pepper Potts, he couldn't believe she was stupid.

"Then I'm Pepper." She had an easy manner, one that Brock wanted to believe was as welcoming as it appeared. "And my soulmate, James."

The man rose and turned to face him. "We've met."

Oh. Oh, _fuck._ There was the asset, Hydra's _asset_ , striding casually toward him in jeans and a hoodie. His hair was trimmed not quite as short as Brock's own, but there was no mistaking the glint of his left, metal hand.

"You have?" Potts looked confused.

"Before I met you," the asset said easily. Then he was offering his hand to Brock. "Heard you're Natalia's soulmate."

Brock had to swallow before he could speak, and how long had it been since he'd been rendered speechless by an introduction?

"Seems so," he managed. Still, he hesitated before taking the offered hand.

"We both have pasts," the asset said. "I won't hold yours against you."

"That's a big promise." And enough of one that Brock forced himself to take the other man's offered hand - the flesh one, thankfully.

"Before they wiped me, that last time, I saw you." The asset - James - spoke in a calm tone that belied the horror of the words. Potts moved closer to him, Brock noted, an instinctively protective move.

"I was there." No sense denying it.

"A lot of people were there," James said with a wry twist of his mouth. "But you were the only one who … cared."

"Odd word," Brock managed.

"I don't know a better one. The others -" James shrugged. "To them, I was just a tool, something to be taken out, used, and put away. You recognized that I was human."

 _Well, hell._ Even that time he'd met the president after a successful mission with the SEALS, Brock hadn't been this lost for words.

"Would you like a drink while you wait?" Potts asked, her manners covering the silence that threatened to become awkward.

Before Brock could answer, the elevator doors opened again and he turned to see Tony Stark emerging from it.

"I heard Romanoff's got a date?" Stark's gaze landed on Brock. "Is she allowed to have dates?"

"Are you going to tell her she can't go on a date if she wants to?" James' question was mild. "Never figured you for the suicidal type, Stark."

"JARVIS, get Rogers and Barton up here, will you?" Stark didn't even pause on his way past Brock and the others. "You take Scotch, right, Barnes? What about you, Romanoff's date? Scotch? Bourbon? Vodka?"

"Whatever you're pouring," Brock said. This, he could handle - but he still kept a wary eye on the asset.

"Behave, Tony." Potts' tone was soft, but even so, Brock heard the warning it conveyed. Stark either didn't or, more likely, didn't care.

"I am behaving," Stark said. "I'm offering our guest a drink. That's civilized behavior, isn't it?"

"I'm so sorry," Potts said, and her expression was as apologetic as her tone.

"I expected worse," Brock admitted.

"Oh, worse is coming." Stark said, just as the elevator opened once more. "No, worse is here."

"What's wrong?" Brock barely had time to recognize Rogers' voice before he added, "Rumlow? What're you doing here?"

Brock started to reply, but Rogers was already moving toward him, and judging by his expression, Rogers wasn't about to offer a handshake. He settled into a ready stance.

Before Rogers had crossed even six feet, the asset was moving to intercept him, caught the other man's arm in his prosthetic hand.

"Let go," Rogers ordered.

"Not until you settle down," the asset – James – replied. "Quit squirming, even you can't break that grip."

"You know what he's done, Buck –"

"Not as much as I have. You wanna hit me, too?"

"What's going on?" That was a new voice, and Brock risked glancing away from the super-soldiers in its direction - another entrance, behind the kitchenette - suppressing a groan when he saw Clint Barton in what looked like a pair of pajamas, quiver hastily thrown over his shoulder, nocking an arrow to his bow.

"Put it away, Barton," the asset said. "He was invited."

"By whom?" Barton demanded.

"Our little spider has a date," Stark said gleefully. He might have been watching a sporting event the way he lounged against the bar, drink in his hand.

Brock took some satisfaction in Rogers' nonplussed expression. Barton's expression, however, hardened.

"You tried to kill us all," Barton said, drawing back his bow. "Why's she going on a date with you?"

"Because he's my soulmate. Not that it's any of your business."

Barton looked past Brock, and had the grace to look somewhat abashed. Still, his tone was defiant when he said, "It was your business when I met mine."

Brock turned to follow Barton's gaze and found himself speechless once again, this time from the vision that was Natasha Romanoff. She was dressed to kill, at least in his opinion, in a simple green dress, her hair falling over her shoulders. That her expression was equal parts amused and angry only made her more attractive.

"I didn't try to kill her," Natasha said. "I didn't even draw down on her."

"She's not a terrorist and a criminal."

"Neither am I," Brock said mildly.

"Only on a technicality," Barton snarled, and Brock swore he saw Barton's fingers twitching where they held the arrow.

"Don't shoot my soulmate, Clint," Natasha warned.

For a moment, Brock thought Barton was going to let his arrow fly and damn the consequences, so he prepared either to dodge or to try to catch the arrow in mid-flight. Then, still scowling, Barton lowered his bow and slipped the arrow back into his quiver.

"You done?" The question came from the asset, and Brock allowed himself to relax when Rogers nodded. The asset – James – let Rogers go. Rogers didn't look happy, but he stayed where he was.

"Are you all done?" Natasha asked, glaring first at Barton, then Rogers, then Stark, and finally James.

"I already said all I need to say on the subject," James answered, then slid an arm around Potts' shoulders. "C'mon, doll. If we want to get to that picture you were talking about, we should be leaving."

Brock took the opportunity to offer his hand to his soulmate. "We should, too. Our reservation's at five, and it'll take a while to get there."

Natasha took his hand, and he guided her into the elevator behind Potts and the asset.

As the elevator doors closed, Brock heard Stark's voice. "Worst shovel talk ever! What the hell's wrong with you guys?"

"I'll kill them for you, if you want," the asset offered.

Natasha gave him a skeptical look. "Steve's your best friend."

"Maybe not Steve."

"I don't remember talking about a movie," Potts said.

"You didn't," James told her. "But it gave these two an escape route that didn't involve bloodshed."

"You're the last person I would've expected to be my wingman," Brock blurted.

"Not yours." The asset nodded toward Natasha. "Hers."


	4. Chapter 4

"Where are we going?" Natasha asked as she pulled her seatbelt across her body to fasten it. She'd let Rumlow open the passenger door of his Challenger for her and now she watched as he started the engine and put the car into gear.

"A little place I know in Queens. Hope you like Italian."

The grin he offered her was meant to be flirty, but Natasha felt a hint of the nerves behind it. That was only fair, she supposed - she was nervous, too. Or she assumed the fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach was nerves. She didn't remember ever feeling it before.

"I like Italian," she said when she realized he was waiting for an answer.

"It won't be as fancy as what you get at Stark's place, but it's good food."

Natasha had to chuckle. "You think we eat fancy every night?"

"I think Stark's known for over-indulgence."

"True enough, but since Bruce moved in, they've been over-indulging in science more than anything else. The rest of us make do with whatever's there, except for Sunday dinner."

"Sunday dinner?" Rumlow looked skeptical, and Natasha couldn't blame him.

"It was Steve's idea. Any of us who aren't on mission are invited to come." She gave _invited_ the barest of emphasis, and Rumlow chuckled.

"Just a normal family dinner," he quipped.

"If anything about us is ordinary, Sunday dinner is. Even the scientists are dragged from their labs - by force if necessary - for it."

"Suddenly I'm seeing Rogers dragging Stark out by his hair. Not sure you'd want to risk that with Banner, though."

"What about you?" Natasha asked. "Any odd traditions?"

"SHIELD wasn't big on company picnics."

Neither, Natasha would bet, was Hydra. "And your family?"

"Big, loud, and Italian on my mom's side. Slightly smaller, slightly quieter, and WASP-y on my father's. Not that he stayed around long enough for me to meet most of them."

"Is that why you ended up in Hydra? Daddy issues?"

Rumlow shot an amused glance at her before turning into the Tunnel. "I thought you were a subtle interrogator, your marks don't even realize it's an interrogation until it's too late."

"This isn't an interrogation. Or I don't mean it to be," Natasha corrected herself.

"What is it?"

"Trying to figure out why the universe thinks we're soulmates."

"Fair enough." Brock hesitated as he guided the car through pre-rush-hour traffic, and for a moment Natasha thought he wasn't going to answer her question. Then he said, "I wasn't clear. Pop wasn't around because he was Army. First Special Forces Operational Detachment."

Natasha recognized the designation. "Delta Force."

"Always on mission, or preparing for one, or getting back from one. I probably only spent a year total with him before I turned eighteen."

"That would be a disaster for most families."

"Mom liked the stability."

"That doesn't sound stable."

"For her, marriage was the stability. It was something, someone, she could count on. Sacred vow before God, and all that. And she knew Dad would do right by her." Brock shrugged as he took a turn onto less-busy street. "It worked for them."

"What did you do when you turned eighteen?"

Brock gave her a grin that was equal parts malicious and mischievous. "Joined the Navy."

Natasha had to laugh, despite the pain that lurked just beneath the surface of his words. Then she sobered and, following some instinct she'd thought long buried and decomposed, rested a hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry."

Brock shrugged again and pulled into a parking space. "It worked for Mom. Didn't work for me."

Rumlow opened the door for her, and Natasha took the hand he offered. _Rogers and Barnes are corrupting me_.

That thought faded before the onslaught of scents coming from the small house where he'd parked. Garlic, tomatoes, and other aromas Natasha couldn't immediately identify surrounded her and she inhaled deeply, anticipating the meal to come.

"Smells like we're in the right place," she observed, and Rumlow chuckled.

"I'll tell Nana you said so."

"Nana?" The truth followed immediately on the question. "Your grandmother's restaurant."

"I thought you'd appreciate the privacy. You aren't as anonymous as you used to be."

He didn't seem to be lying. Of course, he was STRIKE, which meant he'd had more training than the average person in concealing his motives. So she laid out the rest of it. "And it gives you a home field advantage."

Rumlow grinned, teeth white in his olive complexion. "Going up against the Black Widow, I'll take any advantage I can get."

Despite her reservations, Natasha laughed. Was it just a result of their soul-bond that she laughed so easily, so genuinely, with him?

She pondered the question while he led her inside to be greeted warmly by the staff – most of whom were relatives, he said as he introduced them. Natasha responded automatically, slipping into the persona she wore most often, while she considered what was happening.

They were, she realized, getting along. More, she was actually enjoying Rumlow's company. How was that possible, when they were enemies? Or they had been. What were they now?

Soulmates, if their words could be believed.

Then he was holding her chair for her, and she focused on him once more.

"You're good," he said as he took the chair opposite her. Natasha tried not to think of it as an adversarial position. "They didn't even realize you weren't paying attention."

"I was," Natasha corrected. "Just not only to them."

"Uh-huh."

"That's your cousin Gianna at the register. She's in graduate school studying to be a social worker. Your uncle Joey's the chef, and he and your Nana have been arguing about whether or not anchovies truly belong in puttanesca. Shall I continue?"

"All right, I'm impressed." Rumlow paused while their server – Leanne, not one of the family – brought a bottle of red wine and opened it. Rumlow tasted it and nodded, and Leanne poured a glass for each of them, then left them alone.

Natasha took a sip, savored the complexity of flavors, and decided that at least her soulmate had good taste in wine.

"What else were you paying attention to?" Rumlow asked.

Natasha took another sip, then set her glass aside and sat back, studying him. "I was thinking that you hadn't answered my question."

He studied her in return. "What do you think the answer is?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow at his tactic. "Why does my opinion matter?"

"I'd like to see how you think. And what you think of me at this point."

Natasha smiled. This was the kind of challenge she enjoyed. "All right." She took another sip of wine, was interrupted by Leanne's return.

"Your usual?" she asked Rumlow.

"Yes, please," he said.

"What's your usual?" Natasha asked.

"Trust me enough to have it, too?" Rumlow countered.

"Well, it's unlikely you'll poison yourself, so sure."

Which might not have been the best thing to say in front of the college student serving them, Natasha realized. But Rumlow was laughing.

"Make it two," he told Leanne. "With pasta e fagiole to start."

Leanne nodded and, with a last dubious glance at Natasha, left them alone again.

"Zola said that Hydra was founded on the belief that people couldn't be trusted with their own freedom," Natasha said. "Each side of your family seems to be a counter-argument. Your father's side has a history of fighting for, dying for, that freedom. Your mother's side came to America to pursue that freedom. Both sides agree that freedom is worth sacrificing everything that matters."

"Huh." Rumlow shook his head. "I hadn't thought of it like that before. It's a good point."

"With that background, especially since you went into the service yourself, something must have happened to change your beliefs." Natasha studied him. "Something while you were in service?"

"It wasn't one event," Rumlow said. "It was a culmination. And I never entirely agreed with Zola's philosophy."

"You agreed enough."

"I didn't want to."

Natasha made a noncommittal noise, encouraging him to continue.

"You're right about my family – both sides. I grew up on apple pie in the land of opportunity. America, right or wrong, in a nutshell. And then my father got shipped off to Vietnam."

Rumlow sat back as Leanne arrived with their soup and a basket of garlic bread.

"Try it," he said.

Natasha wasn't sure whether he meant the soup or the bread, so she took a bite of each, her eyes widening as flavors burst on her tongue. Rumlow just smiled as he took a spoonful of soup.

"I didn't have a problem with the protesters," he said. "Even as a kid, my folks made sure I knew that people could say whatever they wanted, within reason, like not yelling fire in a crowded theater. Freedom was supposed to be exercised responsibly, though they never said it out loud."

"Responsibility is the reverse of the coin of freedom," Natasha agreed.

"Poetically put." Rumlow lifted his glass in acknowledgment, took a swallow before continuing. "But what I saw then, when Pop and others came home – that wasn't the responsible exercise of freedom. That was people calling honorable soldiers the vilest of names, accusing them of things that they couldn't prove and that might not have actually happened."

"It made you angry."

"I was a kid, it's not like I had deep philosophical thoughts, but yeah, I got mad. And every time I'd see someone else acting irresponsibly with their freedom – even something as simple as bitching about the state of the country but not voting, not even trying to change things – I just got madder."

Rumlow stabbed the air with his fork. "Zola was wrong. It's not that people can't be trusted with their freedom, it's that they don't want the responsibility that comes with it, and they don't realize you can't have one without the other."

"So you'd take it away from everyone, because some people don't want it?"

"Because most people don't want it."


	5. Chapter 5

If Brock had expected an argument, even a debate, after he explained why he'd joined Hydra, he would've been disappointed.

As it was, he hadn't had a clue how Natasha might react, so her guiding the conversation to less touchy subjects was almost a relief. While his mother's side of the family loved nothing more than a lively debate, Brock doubted they'd appreciate a debate in the middle of their restaurant, especially when that debate could eventually involve martial arts and improvised silverware weapons.

She seemed oddly fascinated by stories of his childhood, and then he remembered that what childhood she might have had was lost when the Red Room took her for training. So he made it a point to tell funny stories about his sister and the cluster of cousins he spent every summer with. Natasha laughed, and if at times she seemed a little wistful, Brock knew better than to comment on it.

After tiramisu and coffee, Brock held the door for Natasha as they left the restaurant. The October evening was cool, but Natasha didn't show any signs of discomfort. Still, he shrugged his sport coat off and settled it around her shoulders. Petite as she was, it almost dwarfed her, but she still managed to look proper.

"Are we walking?" she asked.

"If you want to."

"It'll take more than a walk to burn the calories from dinner," she said wryly, "but it's a start."

"I'd show you the old neighborhood, but I didn't spend much time here as a kid. Army brat, moved around a lot."

"That's probably a good thing. I get enough of how things have changed from the super-soldiers."

Brock chuckled, then lapsed into silence as they walked. He guided her in the general direction of Alley Pond Park, not entirely surprised when she let him choose their route.

The silence wasn't exactly comfortable, Brock decided after a few blocks, but he wasn't certain what it was that made it uncomfortable. He, surprisingly, felt pretty good about how things had gone thus far - that it hadn't devolved to physical combat automatically made the night a success in his estimation - and was just enjoying being with his soulmate.

So … the problem came from her. Had she decided she didn't want to be with him after all, as a result of what he'd told her about joining Hydra? No, that couldn't be it - she would've left then, not lingered over dessert and coffee and now a walk.

"Just say it," Brock said when the silence had stretched almost five blocks.

"What?"

"Whatever's bothering you." He smiled at her surprise. "You're not the only one who can read people. I may not be as good as you, but something's bugging you."

One side of her mouth quirked in that almost-grin he was coming to know so well already. "Maybe I let you see it."

"If you didn't want me to ask about it, you wouldn't have."

"Fair point." Natasha turned to face him, and he blinked against the fire of her hair in the light of the evening sun, then focused on her. She took a breath and seemed to steel herself before she looked up to meet his gaze.

"I don't know how not to seduce you."

Brock could only stare at her while his brain spun like tires stuck in sand. He replayed her words several times, trying to parse their meaning. Finally he gave up. It seemed like she was in a direct mood, so he'd be equally direct.

"Being seduced by you would be a pleasure. Why don't you want to?"

"I didn't say I don't want to. I said I don't know how not to. All of this –" Natasha waved her had to indicate their surroundings. "All of this is honestly you, your heritage, who you are and where you came from. I come from the Red Room, from lessons in how to use my body as a tool, a weapon. You can't trust that my reactions are as honest as what you're showing me."

"Then promise they will be."

If he didn't suspect he'd end up without his cell phone and with a broken hand, Brock would snap a picture of Natasha's expression. As it was, nobody – except maybe Rogers, and they weren't close enough for buddy talk – would believe that Natasha Romanoff was staring at him in open-mouthed shock.

"What?" she asked finally.

"Promise you'll be honest with me," Brock clarified. "I'll believe you."

"How can you believe me when I'm not sure I'll believe myself?"

She sounded desperate, and instinctively, Brock moved to take her in his arms, offering what comfort he could. That she let him – and, more, that she clung to him – even after his confession to her at dinner was more reassuring to him than he wanted to admit.

Natasha didn't cry. He hadn't expected her to, of course, but still he was relieved when it didn't happen. What she did was take a shuddering breath and turn her head so her cheek rested against his shoulder.

"When things started going wrong with SHIELD," Natasha said, and Brock had to marvel that even now she managed to be diplomatic in her phrasing, "I told Steve that I wasn't sure whose lies I was telling anymore."

Brock couldn't help chuckling. "Yeah, I get that."

"What I didn't tell him, what I couldn't tell him, is that the biggest lie is who I am. I've been so many different things to so many different people for so long … sometimes I don't remember who I really am."

Brock just held her tighter. Some instinct told him she wasn't done yet, but if he spoke, he might break whatever spell had her talking so freely to him.

"And if I don't know that, how can I – how can we -"

"Slowly," Brock said. "One step at a time."

"You still want to -?"

"You didn't dump me because I was Hydra. I'm not gonna dump you for this." Brock paused. "Might dump you for other reasons, someday. No promises."

That made Natasha laugh more genuinely, and she stepped back from him. Not far, Brock noted, but enough that the moment had changed.

"Honesty works both ways." Brock grinned at her.

"Yes, it does. And I honestly want to do this."

Natasha slid one hand around Brock's neck, tugged. He went with the motion, closing the distance between their mouths and letting her set the pace of the kiss.

There was nothing hesitant about it, for all that it was slow and exploratory, and Brock settled his arms more comfortably around her, letting her know with his body that he was open to whatever she wanted, even if it was nothing more than this.

Two seconds later, he was revising his statement. _This_ was far more than any other kiss he'd ever had. _This_ was the warmth of lips, the bite of teeth, the taste of tongue. _This_ was something he could enjoy the rest of his life. _This_ couldn't be _nothing more_ when it was _everything and_.

Finally, breathing became a necessity, not just a good idea, and they broke apart just enough for Brock to rest his forehead against Natasha's while they caught their breaths.

"Cute moment. Let's not ruin it." The voice was rough, hard, edged with the violence of the streets. Brock looked up casually, though he felt Natasha shift ever so slightly in his arms to a more battle-ready position.

Two men faced them, each brandishing a knife. One wore a denim jacket emblazoned with wings across the chest, spreading out from the column of buttons holding it closed. The other wore a leather bomber jacket and a bandana tied around his head.

"Just hand over your money and jewelry and we'll call it a night." Wings spoke, and it was the same voice that had spoken before.

Brock gave Natasha a wry grin. "Gentleman or caveman? Your choice."

Her eyebrows knit together. "Pardon?"

"The gentleman in me wants to say, _ladies first_. The caveman in me wants to protect my woman. Your choice which wins."

"The fuck you talkin' 'bout, man?" A new voice, so that had to be Bandana. "The fuck is he talkin' about?"

Brock watched Natasha's lip curl into that lopsided grin he was coming to appreciate. He nodded a silent agreement. These guys were strictly bush league, amateurs who didn't know how to improvise when the script went awry.

"Caveman, of course," Natasha said. "I'm already holding your coat for you."

"Good point." Brock stole a quick kiss, then turned to face Wings and Bandana.

Wings gestured with his knife. "C'mon, man. Ain't got all night."

Brock rolled his shoulders. "Silly laws written by pansy-assed bureaucrats require me to inform you that my hands and feet are considered deadly weapons."

"Huh?" Bandana frowned, clearly not understanding. Wings was starting to look a little worried.

Fifteen seconds later, both of them were writhing on the ground, groaning, and Brock was offering his arm to Natasha once again.

"Nicely done," she said.

"Praise from a master. Or mistress, whichever's your kink."

And then he kicked himself for letting the adrenaline speak for him. Then she was laughing, and he relaxed.

"I should've taken at least one of them," Natasha mused. "Work off a little more of dinner."

Brock glanced over his shoulder at their two would-be assailants as he urged Natasha to resume their walk. "That barely counts as a warm-up."

"Well." Natasha paused, turning them so they faced each other. "I can think of a really good workout."

Brock swallowed. Could she be suggesting what he thought she might be suggesting? There was only one way to find out. "Need any special equipment for this workout?"

"Just a willing partner." Her voice was low and breathy, and it sent shivers down his spine. "And maybe just enough cover not to be brought in for indecent exposure."

"How long are you willing to wait for said cover?"

"The less time we spend looking for cover, the more time we can spend doing other things."

 _All right, then._ His apartment was in Manhattan, definitely too much time to get there. The Tower - Brock shut that thought down immediately. Too much chance they'd run into one or another of Natasha's teammates, and no matter which one it was, the mood would be shattered beyond repair.

"Stop thinking so much, Brock."

Then she was tugging him into the shadows of a copse of trees at the edge of the park. Brock scowled at the trees for a moment - how had he not realized they'd actually made it to the park? Damn, but his soulmate was distracting - and then his back was against the rough bark of a tulip tree, a warm woman pressing against his front.

Brock bent his head to her kiss, and where their first kiss had been warm and exploratory, this one was hot and hungry and eager and _now_ and he was pulling her closer, so close he had a moment's delusion that he might actually pull her into him, and then his lips were curling into a snarl because hers weren't under them anymore.

Then her hands were at the zipper of his trousers, and he hissed in a breath as the chilly air caressed his achingly erect cock. The warmth of her mouth surrounded him, and he was lost in sensation until the world exploded in fire behind his eyelids.

Then she was tucking him back in and zipping his trousers, looking far more cool and calm than anyone had a right to after what she'd just done for him. He'd have to change that.

He pulled her to her feet and back into his arms for another kiss. "That all you want?"

"That was just to take the edge off."

Brock smiled, and if it was predatory, Natasha didn't seem to mind.


	6. Chapter 6

Natasha woke still cradled in Brock's arms, the morning sun diffused by the shades they'd drawn last night before tumbling into bed for wild, almost violent, sex. She was still pleasantly fatigued this morning, enough that she just settled herself more comfortably against him.

Brock was still asleep, judging by the slow rise and fall of his chest, and Natasha smiled, letting her mind wander where it would. Which was mostly to memories of last night – not the sex so much as the feeling of just being _with_ someone, no ulterior motives clouding the experience. How long had it been since she'd felt that way? Or _had_ she ever felt that way, really? She didn't know and, right now, reveling in the rightness of the feeling, she didn't care.

The only sign she had that Brock had awakened was the tightening of his arms around her, followed by, "You're still here."

Natasha had to smile. "Amazingly acute observation."

"Considering I haven't had caffeine yet, it's amazing I noticed at all."

Natasha chuckled. "Far be it from me to keep a man from his coffee."

She started to get up, but he tugged her back down. "There are better ways to wake me up."

"Just promise you won't fall asleep after." _That's new, too - teasing just for the fun of it._

"I won't if you won't."

#

In the end, they moved from bed to shower, and then to the kitchen where Natasha made coffee while Brock made breakfast.

"It won't be fancy," he warned her. "But it'll fill you up."

Natasha set a cup of coffee on the counter for him, took her own to the table and sat quietly while he cooked. He liked that, he decided – she liked that they could be quiet together, even after so short a time. Maybe it was a result of their training, or maybe it was because they were soulmates. Whatever the reason, Natasha decided to enjoy it.

And she did, until Brock set a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of her, sitting opposite her with his own plate.

"Figured it out yet?" he asked.

Natasha pursed her lips, wondering where that question had come from. "What?"

"Why the universe thinks we're soulmates."

 _Oh. That._ Natasha took a bite of egg before replying, "Not yet."

His piercing gaze locked onto hers. "You still want to?"

She'd promised to be honest, and she would, however unfamiliar it might be. "I'm afraid to."

"Why?"

Natasha had dreaded that question. She wasn't sure how to answer it, much less answer it honestly. She took another bite of the eggs, followed it with bacon while she considered what answer she could make.

"Because you're afraid I'm right?" Brock suggested after she'd taken two more bites without speaking.

"No," Natasha said quickly.

"You think I'm wrong?"

"No, it's not because I'm afraid you're right," Natasha clarified. "I know you are, at least partly."

"Totally."

"Mostly."

"All right, mostly." Brock grinned and took a swallow of coffee. "So if you know I'm mostly right, what's the issue?"

That question, at least, had an easy answer. "The parts where I'm not sure you're right. And the conclusions you've drawn from the facts."

"How're they the issue? More coffee?"

"Yes, thanks. They're the issue because that's where we'll disagree."

"A little disagreement keeps a relationship healthy. Or so they say." Brock returned to the table, set her now-full cup in front of her.

"Would they still say that if said disagreement could end up with a 911 call?" Natasha mused.

Brock barked a laugh. "Like either of us would ever call 911."

Natasha couldn't help smiling. "There is that."

"What bothers you about disagreeing with me?"

"Nothing. Honest," she added to his skeptical look. "It's that I could come to agree with you."

"That demands explanation."

"What is there to explain?" Natasha asked.

"Why it would be bad if you did agree with me."

She was quiet as she sipped her coffee. "Have you ever been on the receiving end of Captain America's _I'm very disappointed in you_ expression?"

"Can't say that I have. I've seen _You traitorous bastard_ and _I'm going to have to kill you_ but never _I'm very disappointed in you_."

"Be grateful," Natasha said solemnly. "Be very grateful. It's like a thousand puppies have been betrayed, and not all the apple pie in the world will make it better."

"That's … a very disturbingly mixed metaphor. Or something."

"I heard one of Pepper's interns say that expression could make the fiercest, angriest animal you can imagine turn away with its tail tucked between its legs."

Brock had to laugh. When he caught his breath, he said, "So you don't want to disappoint Rogers. I accept it, even if I don't get it. What other reasons?"

Natasha took another slow swallow of coffee. She wasn't used to being honest, and was surprised at how difficult it could be. Damn Steve for making it look so easy. "It would compromise me. My ability to do my job."

Brock stilled, and for the first time, Natasha felt uncomfortable with him, with her inability to read him as she read so many other people. What was he thinking?

For the first time, she was the one who felt the need to fill a silence. "I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't do my job anymore."

And that was far more honesty than she'd planned on offering him. Even as that thought formed itself, another followed: _But it was necessary_.

She took a breath, let it out slowly. "After the Triskelion, I told Steve I had to figure out who I wanted to be now, and I couldn't do it. I didn't know, had no place to start, nothing to build from. It was a relief when Steve called to tell me they'd found Barnes, because it gave me something to do, someone to be."

"Natasha -" Brock's voice was tight with some emotion she didn't want to identify.

"I can't do that again, Brock. I won't do that again."

She hated that her voice was shaky when she made that declaration, hated even more that Brock would know the emotion behind it, the emotion she never let anyone see. But this man, her soulmate - he'd know it all, and she closed her eyes against his reaction, the pity and disgust that were why she kept her mask so carefully in place. She couldn't bear to see that, not from him.

His arms were around her almost before she felt him move, holding her tight against his body.

He didn't speak, but she could feel his heart pounding beneath her ear where it pressed against his chest. It wasn't until his heartbeat returned to something like a normal rate that he spoke.

"I promise, Natasha - I'll never let you get to that place."

"How can you make that promise?" Natasha demanded.

"Because you're my soulmate," Brock answered steadily, despite the gravel in his voice. "And whether we bond or not, you matter to me. You always have, even before I knew you, and you always will."

"How can I believe you?" That wasn't a demand, Natasha realized. It was the plaintive question of the little girl she hadn't been even when she was a child.

"Because I'm your soulmate, the person who will never betray you, never walk away from you when you need someone. Let yourself believe that, Natasha, even if you never believe anything else."

Natasha swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. "I'll try."

Brock's arms tightened around her. "I'll help."


	7. Chapter 7

_Eight Months Later_

Natasha thought weddings like this only happened in the movies. Certainly she'd never thought she'd have a wedding at all, let alone one like this, full of people laughing and talking, and the occasional discreet dabbing of eyes.

Maybe this was another reason the universe had given her Brock as a soulmate, so that his family - both sides; even some of his father's family had flown in - could give her a wedding she'd never known she wanted until she had it.

For the moment, Natasha had found a relatively quiet corner to catch her breath. She'd been to dozens of events like these during her career, but never before been the focus of one, and that was … disconcerting. She needed a moment to herself, to pull the mask of the Black Widow back into place. Brock might know the woman beneath the mask, but that didn't mean she was ready to reveal her for all to see.

"You okay, Natalia?"

Okay, there were others who knew the woman beneath the mask. One of those, Bucky Barnes, had come up to her, a drink in either hand.

"They're -" Natasha nodded in the general direction of the party "- a little overwhelming. In a good way, but still."

"But still," Bucky agreed, holding one of the drinks out to her.

She took it, sipped, smiled as the burn of good Russian vodka trailed down her throat. "I didn't know they had vodka."

Bucky snorted. "They don't. The bar's full of Italian stuff - Campari, prosecco, and limoncello, whatever the hell that is. I brought the vodka. Figured you'd need it."

"Keep that up, you might become my favorite super-soldier." Natasha knocked back the rest of the vodka and Bucky silently offered her the second drink he'd brought.

"There's more if you want it."

"I should be good now." Natasha took another sip, and for a moment they stood in companionable silence.

"It was good that you two walked up the aisle together," Bucky said finally.

"What, no pining for tradition?" Natasha smiled. She'd caught Steve's slightly disapproving expression as she walked up the aisle on Brock's arm. Clearly, he still thought someone should be giving the bride away.

"Some traditions are good," Bucky said, "but this is a choice you made, and he made. Who has the right to 'give you away' in that sense? Barton? Rogers? Good for you two, making your own choices."

"You and Pepper going to do the same?" Natasha asked.

"We might, if I can ever convince her to marry me."

"You're bonded. Why wouldn't she?"

"Something about a media circus, too many cameras invading a private event."

Natasha laughed. "Like you don't know a dozen ways to handle it discreetly."

"I don't. Seriously - when would I have learned to plan a wedding, let alone a discreet one?"

"Surely they had justices of the peace back in the thirties?"

"You have no romance in your soul."

"Which one of us is having a big, loud Italian wedding?"

"Speaking of," Bucky angled his head to his left, her right. "Incoming, three o'clock."

Natasha glanced to her right and her mouth went dry. There was Nana, and Gianna, and a half-dozen of Brock's other female relatives, approaching in a - pack? bevy? Natasha had no idea what the correct term for a group of women was, but this was one, whatever the term might be.

"Save me," she murmured.

Bucky turned and set his glass on a nearby table.

Natasha was just turning to set her own glass aside when the gaggle arrived.

"Natasha," Gianna said, "Nana wanted to ask you -"

Natasha flicked a glance to Bucky, who offered his hand to her.

"Natalia promised me a dance, ladies. After that, she's all yours," he said with a grin that went beyond charming.

Nana strode forward, body-checking Bucky with force that Natasha could see. Bucky took a step away rather than unintentionally hurt the woman if she slammed into his metal arm.

"Bambinos!" Nana said.

Natasha threw Bucky a panicked glance. Charming he might normally be, but right now, he just looked like he was struggling to hold in laughter.

"I'll get you, Barnes, so help me," she said in Russian, watching him step back, allowing the rest of the herd to crowd her.

There really was only one thing to do in this situation. She slammed back the rest of her vodka and summoned a smile.

#

 _I don't know what I did to deserve this, God, but thank you._

Brock offered the words simply, silently, from one side of the pavilion set up in Alley Pond Park. The only thing Natasha had asked for in a wedding was an outdoor venue, and Brock had arranged the rest. Well, he and Pepper Potts had, and where that woman found time to help him plan a wedding in the middle of all of her other duties he had no idea.

Now, surveying his guests - from Clint Barton dancing with his soulmate/wife, to Tony Stark being charming rather than obnoxious, to his uncle Joey making sure every last item on the buffet was just right - Brock could only be grateful for the day and the people that had chosen to share it with him and Natasha.

"Shouldn't you be with your wife?"

Brock glanced over to where Natasha had retreated and was talking with Barnes. Appropriate, then, that Rogers was talking to him. Symmetric, even.

"We have the rest of our lives together, Cap," Brock answered. "I can share her today."

"Yeah, well, in our line of work, that _rest_ can be awfully short."

"Aren't you a ray of sunshine?" And almost more than Brock gave thanks for Natasha, he gave thanks that he and Rogers had found some stable ground. They'd never agree - Rogers always saw the best in people, and Brock rarely could - but they'd become comrades, if not actually friends. It was enough.

"Sorry. Just - cherish her, okay? She's special, we all know it."

"I do. Every day." And every minute of every hour of every day, but he wasn't going to get that sappy out loud.

"Hey, Rumlow." Brock looked up at Barnes' approach. There was someone else he'd never expected to get comfortable with. "Your granny ever compete in roller derby?"

Brock felt his eyebrows crashing together. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Woman's got a mean body check." Barnes sounded both amused and impressed.

"How do you know that?"

"She shoved me out of the way to get to Natalia. Said something about bambinos," Barnes added. "You might want to step in."

Brock winced. Natasha had told him, very early on, that she couldn't have children thanks to the Red Room. It hadn't mattered to him then, and it certainly didn't matter now, but he'd forgotten how much his grandmother loved babies.

"Thanks," he said, and started across the park to the food pavilion where he could see a cluster of his female relatives in one corner. Behind them, he'd bet, Natasha endured their well-meaning but ill-informed admonitions and encouragements.

As he drew closer, he saw the glint of Natasha's coppery hair and breathed a sigh of relief. At least she hadn't disabled any of his family or, worse, slipped away in the middle of their onslaught, leaving him with a lot of questions that had uncomfortable answers.

"All my favorite ladies in one place," he said when he was within easy speaking distance. "How lucky can a man get?"

His family turned to face him, and through a gap between Nana and Gianna's heads, Brock saw the relief that flashed across Natasha's expression and was gone in less than a heartbeat.

Brock gave her an understanding glance but kept smiling as he hugged his way through his family to his wife. He slid an arm around Natasha, felt the stiffness in her muscles.

"How're you doing?" he asked her. Without waiting for an answer he looked back at his grandmother, aunts and cousins. "Are you overwhelming my bride on her day?"

He kept his tone light, but it was enough of a hint for Gianna and his other cousins. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

"Not intentionally," Gianna said, then offered Natasha a smile. "Sorry."

Natasha nodded, gave her a return smile, and then Gianna was shooing the rest of the women away.

Nana lingered, with an intense expression that deepened every one of her laugh lines. She wagged a finger at Brock. "Bambinos."

"Us first, Nana," Brock said easily. "Bambinos later. Maybe."

Nana scowled at him, but followed Gianna and the others. Beneath his arm, he felt Natasha relaxing.

"Sorry," he told Natasha. "I've never been on the receiving end of that swarm. I didn't think that you might be."

"It's all right, really, they're good people," Natasha said.

"Yes, they are," Brock agreed. Then he tugged her closer against his side. "I'd choose you over them any time."

"Brock -"

"I would." Brock turned them so he could face her. "We're soulmates, yes, but more than that, I love you."

He bent for the kiss he hadn't dared give her at the conclusion of the ceremony. That kiss had, by necessity, been brief, more a promise than an actual kiss. This was an actual kiss, deep and slow and loving, and after a moment, he felt her snuggling more closely against his body.

"Just because we can't give Nana bambinos doesn't mean we can't try," he said against her mouth.

"Are you suggesting we abandon our guests?"

"I'm suggesting we have to keep our skills sharp, and getting out of here unnoticed is good practice."

"I'll make it back to our place before you do."

Brock raised his head to meet her gaze. "Is that a challenge?"

"It could be."

Brock smiled and kissed her again, quickly. He liked that kind of challenge. "You're on."

 **NOTE:**

Thank you for following Natasha and Brock's story with me! They were a joy to write.

Steve and Skye's story is up next, and where Natasha and Brock have been a joy, SkyeCaptain are being a royal pain. My beta reader and I have a disagreement - I think I'm on the fifth re-start, and he insists it's the sixth….

All that to say, it'll be a bit of a delay before "Of Soulmates and Super-Soldiers" is posted. It WILL come, I promise, but it'll be a couple of weeks. Thanks for your understanding and patience!


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